This unusual state of affairs was not of his volition: rather, two men were propping him up by the armpits.
“Ah. So you awake,” the man on his right uttered. “Good. You pass your final test.”
With that, his two erstwhile assistants began to drag him towards the entry in an awkward pas de trois, wherein Sherlock could do little more than watch his feet shuffle lamely across the floor.
Still holding on to him, the man on the left opened the door as the other one muttered: “Go. Twenty-four hours, you return. If you return, you ours.”
Thereupon, he released him, giving him a small but definitive shove out the door.
Blinded by the milky daylight, Sherlock staggered on his sea legs and would surely have stumbled into the mud of the street, had not the two women on stools reached out to steady him. He did not look at them, for the light was too bright and he was too disoriented, but their hawk-like grasp felt strangely comforting.
He lost track of time as he stood there, suspended, until one of them murmured, as if she were speaking to him from far away: “You go now.”
It was a tone that would broach no objection.
* * *
When Sherlock next awoke, he was seated in an alleyway, his back against a rough and thoroughly unpleasant wall. His head was aching so badly that it felt like someone had been using it as a snare drum. He touched it, convinced he would feel blood; but all he felt was hair matted into a rat’s nest between crown and nape. He let his hand fall upon the ground again, only to realize he had just missed a small puddle of vomitus: his own, he assumed.
Whatever else, the poppy was not the drug for him.
Shading his eyes and blinking furiously, he stared up at a hazy sun and calculated that it must be nearly four in the afternoon—though of what day, he could not be certain.
Shakily, he rose to his feet, trying to recall where he was. Then he remembered that he was in Limehouse, that it was not safe there for the likes of him, and that he should most definitely try to make his way out of the East End before dark.
But first things first.
Leaning against the wall and struggling to remain erect, he awkwardly removed his jacket, draped it over one shoulder and rolled up his cuffs.
One, two, three, four, five, six…
Six new puncture marks.
He had to shake off the fog and the wooziness so as to recall how each and every injection felt—for there was something terribly familiar about them all.
Then there was the comment in the opium den, the one that had shaken him out of his delirium: ’E’s a right proper baker, best I ever come across.
Almost instantly he recalled Mycroft’s words: Why would a lad about to die, who has but one breath left in him to say one word, choose that one? What did Charles hope to achieve? It makes logical sense but no emotional sense, do you see?
Sherlock understood that now.
He began to shiver uncontrollably.
As he lowered his cuffs and struggled to put on the jacket, he heard a high-pitched whistle, then another one—the sort that thieves make when they lay their eyes upon an easy target. But when he looked about, he saw no one.
He took a reckoning of his belongings. He had Alvey Ducasse’s shoes upon his feet. He had stashed his new shirt in a convenient hole, though where that might be, he could not recall at the moment. He still wore the torn, smelly one, with Alvey’s itchy jacket over that, and his trousers were frayed. He had nothing at all worth stealing.
He breathed a sigh of relief until he heard a more harrowing sound: feet running towards him, two pairs in fact, the noise of leather slapping cobblestones reverberating off the looming buildings.
He had no one to protect him and could not have thrown a punch for the literal life of him.
He slid back down the wall, curled up into a ball, and hoped the punishment would be brief.
A moment later, he felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
“Guv! Guv! It’s us, McPeel and Ducasse!”
He lifted his head from the crook of his elbow and squinted into the light. Sure enough, there stood Joe McPeel and Alvey Ducasse, staring down at him, their expressions a cross between bewildered and victorious.
“How… how did you find me?” Sherlock asked.
“We din’t! Them’s the ones,” Ducasse said, pointing upwards.
Sherlock followed the trajectory of Ducasse’s thumb to a darkened second-floor window across the alleyway, where a shadow appeared briefly from a back window, waved, and then was gone.
“We put out word that you’d gone missin’,” McPeel explained.
“And what made you do that?” Sherlock asked, for he had told no one where he was going.
“Douglas said you was comin’ to Nicklas to switch!” Ducasse explained, modeling Sherlock’s jacket, which fit him quite nicely, as did Sherlock’s shoes. “When you din’t show, I fetched McPeel an’ we runs to the last place we seen you! Been on the ’unt ever since!”
“Beggin’ pardon, guv, but that puddle stinks to ’igh ’eaven,” McPeel added, indicating the vomitus. “How’s about we ’elp you to your feet?”
“What day is this?” Sherlock asked as he took a hold of their outstretched hands.
“Wensdy!” Ducasse announced brightly.
Fighting nausea and the pounding in his head, Sherlock released himself from their hands and took a few tottering steps. “Wednesday,” he repeated. “Two hours to find my good shirt, sober up, tidy up, and get myself to a dinner party. Might the two of you assist me in this endeavor?”
“We’d consider it a right honor, guv,” McPeel said proudly.
43
TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THE BALMY EVENING, MYCROFT paced just outside the Lin residence on Kenilworth Street in Pimlico. He was smoking a Partagás to keep his temperamental nerves at bay as he waited for Sherlock to arrive. What was it about this dinner that put him so much on edge? He had been invited here as a guest, yet he was curious about Deshi Hai Lin and his business, and he was determined to ferret out a bit more information than was strictly appropriate for a dinner gathering… which made him wonder if he was suffering a pang of guilt.
But no. What Mycroft felt in the pit of his stomach were butterflies.
You cannot be carrying a torch for this girl, a girl you have met but once… and Oriental to boot! he scolded himself.
He looked to heaven, hoping to find a spark of commiseration there, but a sliver of a moon lay horizontal in the black sky, like a smile.
Even the moon seemed to be laughing at him.
Patrolling the street were the two bodyguards whom Mycroft recognized from the herbalist’s shop. But when they passed, acknowledging him with a small nod of the head, it simply reaffirmed that neither man had been the mysterious driver of the landaulet.
Huan had parked Mycroft’s carriage down the street, with an unobstructed view of the building. He and Douglas were to linger outside, coachman and “bodyguard,” as Mycroft and Sherlock went in to dine… provided Sherlock managed to show.
This doubt had just planted itself and taken root, causing Mycroft’s anxiety to grow by leaps and bounds, when he spotted his brother in the distance, arriving at a run.
“Hurry!” Mycroft exclaimed by way of greeting, putting out his Partagás and staring sternly his way—an attitude that was not entirely fair, given that Sherlock was not late.
“Taking up smoking again?” Sherlock responded jovially. “You have not done that in a—”
“What has happened to your jacket?” Mycroft demanded, alarmed. “It looks as if you’ve slept in it! And why is your shirt not pressed?”
“As long as your mouth is open, Mycroft, is there anything else you would care to criticize?” Sherlock replied.
“For pity’s sake,” Mycroft said with a sigh.
While he set about tugging on Sherlock’s jacket and smoothing out the shoulders to adjust the fit, Sherlock looked about with distaste, as if he had suddenly taken notice of the
ir location.
“I was under the impression that the family has means, so why Pimlico?”
“You know perfectly well why,” Mycroft snapped, tugging on Sherlock’s collar to make it stand up properly, and fixing his tie. “Stop asking foolish questions.”
“It is a cut above Chelsea, I suppose, but I thought he was a wealthy owner of steamships! This is more suited to the distant relatives of minor nobility…”
“Because this owner of steamships is Chinese!” Mycroft reminded him. “Better neighborhoods are closed to him. And if he wishes to be accepted even in these lesser neighborhoods, he will have to keep his wits about him and not call too much attention to himself.”
“And why is Douglas here?” Sherlock continued accusingly. “Is he to stand guard at the door all night like some gilded blackamoor? Surely you are not expecting trouble?” he added as Mycroft hustled him up the front steps to the Lins’ residence. “And what are we to do about dinner? I am not hungry in the least! And even if I were, you know I have no taste for exotic food—”
“Sherlock, do not embarrass me—”
“—and what of the symbols?” Sherlock interrupted, restraining Mycroft as the latter reached for the bell. “What did you discover? I have a right to know!”
“Stop it!” Mycroft replied. “Why are you blathering on? And why are your eyes so bright?”
Sherlock lowered his voice. “I have slept poorly the last several days due to the studying, so I indulged in a bit of Vin Mariani.”
“What is ‘a bit’?”
Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. “One, perhaps two glasses…”
“Two glasses! Sherlock! That is nearly ninety milligrams of cocaine!” Mycroft scolded. “What were you thinking? Calm yourself! Breathe! Try to maintain some decorum, for the love of heaven!” He turned the bell.
The door opened and a tall, impeccably coiffed and liveried Mandarin held out a silver platter, on which Mycroft and Sherlock dutifully placed their calling cards. Though the man was clean-shaven with short, well-coiffed hair, Mycroft recognized him immediately.
At last, the driver of the landaulet!
No doubt it was he who had visited Regent Tobaccos and so impressed Mr. Pennywhistle with his gentlemanly ways; he who had paid for the Glenlivet in Australian coin. He who had worn false beard and gloves, to practically run them over outside of Madame de Matalin’s!
The butler did not make eye contact or intimate that he knew Mycroft at all. As he escorted them to the drawing room, Mycroft kept his wits about him and took stock of the layout of the house.
Mycroft was well aware that Orientals could be, indeed were expected to be, in the ship trade. Deshi Hai Lin would not have to pretend, as Douglas did, that he was an employee rather than an employer. But still, he had to beware of jealousy or animosity from native-born citizens. The plain, unassuming house was the embodiment of caution. It had a well-bred economy, with the goal of drawing no undue attention to itself or to its owner. Yet, here and there Mycroft spotted touches of affluence. As they passed the library, glass-fronted bookshelves held several first editions of fourteenth-century works, including The Canterbury Tales and Dante Alighieri’s Trilogy, the ceiling boasted a spring-loaded chandelier, and on the wall were gas brackets in lieu of traditional sconces, a definite modern and costly touch. Below their feet were several thick Moroccan and Turkish rugs.
It did, however, make him wonder again about the canary-yellow landaulet, since Deshi Hai Lin had taken such care to be discreet in his own home. What on earth had possessed him to make such an ostentatious purchase?
At that moment Mycroft noticed, through a partially open door, an alcove with a pretty little window seat. On it sat a very large bisque doll with black hair and Oriental features. He turned to see if Sherlock had noticed, but his brother was looking straight ahead while lifting his knees as he walked, like a badly strung marionette.
The butler led the two brothers into the drawing room. Ai Lin and her brother were there to greet them. She was dressed in traditional garb. Her skirt, over-blouse and Qing jacket were in emerald green this time, her coal-black hair swept up into one large chignon, a corona of holly flowers surrounding it.
“Please forgive my father’s absence,” she said with a small bow. “An unforeseen circumstance having to do with his work. He assured me he would join us for pudding.”
Mycroft attempted to muster up some disappointment at this—after all, poor Douglas was cooling his heels outside so that he could learn something about the patriarch, not the son or the daughter!—but he simply could not manage it.
As for her brother, Dai en-Lai Lin, he stood by her side with a smile so wide it could have put Huan’s to shame. He seemed, all told, exactly what Sherlock had described: “a good enough sort” of average height and weight, with a pleasing if not handsome face, and a dusting of a mustache over his top lip. Unlike his sister, he was dressed in Western attire. And, although unfailingly polite to Mycroft, it was clear that his interest lay solely in Sherlock. Within moments after they entered, the two lads were in a conclave at the far end of the room, chattering on about the miseries of university and exams, along with the joys of self-defense.
Sherlock was as agreeable as Mycroft had ever seen him. And when, to Dai en-Lai’s delight, he demonstrated one or two boxing maneuvers, Mycroft whispered a silent thank-you to Angelo Mariani and his coca-laced tonic.
As they waited to be summoned to dinner, Mycroft and Ai Lin observed their excited banter with some amusement, and she thanked him for bringing his brother.
“Dai has been counting the hours,” she told him. “He could not be happier, and therefore neither could I. The flowers, in fact, are in your honor, you see?”
Mycroft startled at the word “flowers,” but Ai Lin turned so that he might better observe the garland that encircled her hair—though there was no need, for he had noticed it immediately.
“‘Holme,’ from what I was told, means ‘one who resides near a holly tree’!” she announced.
Mycroft laughed. “I was told that as well, though I fear we are Norsemen, from the old Norse ‘Holmr,’ which I believe means ‘small patch of land in a river’—not quite so charming.”
Ai Lin raised her perfect brows. “You were told? You do not know?”
“I do not. I am woefully ignorant of our ancestry beyond a few paltry generations.”
“Purposely so?” she asked, tilting her head like a curious bird.
“I assume you are acquainted with all your ancestors,” Mycroft said.
“Oh yes. For fourteen generations. But of course, we revere them, and they purportedly return the favor by looking after us.”
“‘Purportedly’?” he inquired, smiling.
“Please do not assume I am being flippant, Mr. Holmes,” Ai Lin replied. “It is merely an acknowledgment of my mortality and all that I cannot know for certain about what is to come.”
Just then, the butler entered. “Dinner is served,” he announced, his tone strong but pleasing.
“Thank you, William,” Ai Lin said. “Might you do me the honor of escorting me, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, then amended: “You seem a bit flushed…”
William! Mycroft was thinking. Of course!
“Forgive me,” he said, offering her his arm. “It is just that… your man is impressive, is he not?” he added as they followed William down the hall towards the dining room. “And it is so difficult to find a good manservant nowadays…”
“Indeed, he is a treasure,” she said proudly. “He has been with our family since I was five. He began as postilion and is quite the horseman still. To be frank, I prefer him to our coachman and so does my father, and he is kind enough to indulge us!”
“Was he born here? Given his Christian name, I mean.”
“In Canton. His real name is Wei Wing Zheping. But I was just learning English and took a liking to the name ‘William.’ To my ears it sounded like Wei Wing. And so, with the brashness of children, I ren
amed him.”
“I see,” Mycroft replied. “So you baptized him, as it were. Did you give him a surname as well? Or perhaps at age five you did not yet know what a surname was—”
“Of course I did! Because I adored him, I gave him one that would fit his nature: ‘Angel.’”
“Ah. And are you the only one who calls him thus?” Mycroft asked.
“On the contrary. William Angel he became, and William Angel he remained!” she said as Angel himself opened the dining-room door.
So that is why Madame de Matalin could not socialize with him, Mycroft thought. Because William Angel is Chinese, and a mere butler.
44
ONE END OF THE LONG DINING-ROOM TABLE HAD BEEN SET with the snowiest of linens. Atop it were Georgian glasses, their round funnels engraved with an image of Britannia holding a sprig of olive, and surrounded by foliage and flowers. The plain white china that accompanied it was so delicate as to be very near transparent, the George Adams silverware shined to a fare-thee-well. Behind each setting sat a silk card bearing each of their names and written in the finest hand.
It was of the same make and fabric as William Angel’s calling cards in Madame de Matalin’s paraphernalia box.
At the head of the table an empty chair awaited Deshi Hai Lin. Mycroft, as the elder brother, was seated to the missing patriarch’s right, with Ai Lin beside him. Sherlock was to the left, Dai en-Lai at his side.
The repast, though well executed, consisted of nothing more exotic than savory soup, roast pork, potatoes and vegetables: a meal carefully chosen to not give offense.
As they ate, Ai Lin asked about Mycroft’s work and interests, and he told her what he could. They spoke of his passion for inventions, and Dai en-Lai and Sherlock joined in for a while. Sherlock was especially delighted with the notion of an electric typewriter recently perfected by Edison.
“Soon, we shall have no need for handwritten missives!” he crowed, for his penmanship was every bit as illegible as Queen Victoria’s.
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